Halloween Hijinks
by LogicMouse
Summary: Spoilers through Changes  Written for a Holiday themed ficathon on the Butcher boards in autumn of 2010.   How well  or badly  did Harry and Eb get along when they were first thrown together? And what would have to happen before they could learn to trust


Halloween Hijinks

**The Dresden Files are copyright Jim Butcher. **

**This story is presented under the Creative Commons as derivative, non-commercial fiction. **

**Translation: It's JB's sandbox. I'm just glad I can play in it.**

One of these days, Harry Dresden is going to be the death of me.

Almost stopped my heart the first time I laid eyes on him. Well. It wasn't actually _seeing_ him that did it. It wasn't the first time I'd seen a captive, bound and hooded, brought to stand before the White Council's rough and ready justice. It wasn't even the first time it'd been a child.

It was no more than coincidence that I was there at all. Unless you don't believe in coincidence, then you'd have to find your own name for it. I'd been visiting Edinburgh to catch up with an old acquaintance, one of the few members of that stuffy cluster of politicians that make up the Senior Council that I could stand for more than a minute in a row. Injun Joe and I have known each other since before there were more than a couple dozen states in the Union. We haven't always gotten along, and I've got a cold-weather ache or two to prove it, but we'd both mellowed with age, and come to enjoy one another's company on occasion.

We hadn't finished catching up yet when a scrawny little slip of an apprentice poked her nose into his sitting room to remind him of the trial. He asked me to stay, finish our talk when it was done. We both knew these things didn't take long. I hesitated, but something made me say yes, go him one better in fact. I'd come along.

He told me about the case as we strolled to the Speaking Room; as much of a heartbreaker as these things often are. Sixteen year-old kid, half-trained and apparently misled as to the nature of Wizardry. Fought with his master and killed him, in a fire that burned down their house and nearly took the neighborhood with it. The boy was more than half hysterical when the Wardens caught up to him, claimed that his master tried to enthrall him, and set a demon on his trail when he ran.

That was quite a claim, given the dead man was a former Warden. I'd met DuMorne once or twice, decades ago. He was a friend of Maggie's, which sadly doesn't say much for his character, or much against the boy's accusations. I'd heard rumors there was something fishy about the reasons he had for retiring too, but I'd never looked into it myself.

Injun Joe seemed to think there was enough evidence to believe the boy's claim of self defense at least, which could have gotten him leniency if someone cared enough to take him on–and the Doom with him. But the boy didn't know anyone like that. Hadn't even recognized the Wardens for what they were when they took him. Claimed he'd never heard of the White Council. Never heard of the Laws either, I guess.

There were no more than a dozen onlookers in the big, cold room, and I took a seat down near the front as Injun Joe filed in with the rest of the Senior Council. A couple of brawny old Wardens manhandled the accused in behind and held him up for display: A tall, scrawny thing, in battered blue jeans and the scorched remains of a white T-shirt, hands tied in front of him, face covered in a worn black hood. He stood almost straight between his handlers, but he was shivering sharply with terror and cold. Edinburgh's always been a chill, drafty place.

Langtry's pet Warden, Morgan, stepped up to begin the proceedings, reading off the boilerplate of the charge in his rough, pitiless voice. There's a one who's always embodied "spare the sword and spoil the child". Why men like him take every dead, misguided youngster as a victory I'll never understand. Every headless corpse is a defeat for us all.

I might have spent the whole God-damned trial lost in that sort of maundering, but for the way Morgan said the boy's name, like he was dropping stones onto a drumhead: "Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden."

And _that's_ when my heart nearly stopped.

Dresden. I'd met a man by the name of Dresden once. The very last time I saw my daughter alive, she brought him all the way out to my farm to meet me. They'd only met a few months before, but they'd been married in Vegas that Sunday, and I think she was looking for some sort of blessing from me, as backwards as that was. Just as backwards as everything else between the two of us.

If it hadn't been for the mortal man driving the car, I'm not sure what I would have done when she first pulled up. The Merlin would have had me kill her–she was a lawbreaker officially by then. The father in me might have run to take her in my arms, or more likely take my hand to her backside.

But there he was, towering even over my overgrown sprout of a girl; a spare, lanky man with a modest, ready smile and big, slender-fingered hands. Pure habit of centuries made me cautious, willing to be civil for the sake of hiding our secrets from the mundane world. I thank the Lord it did.

For all the water under my family's bridges, Malcolm Dresden won me over. I've never met a kinder, more generous, good-hearted man. And the change he'd wrought in Maggie was nothing short of miraculous. She was happier than I'd ever seen her. I pressed them to stay for the night. They ended up staying a week, and it was one of the best times of my life.

The next I heard of my daughter–just over a year later–she was dead. And I never heard a word of, or from, Malcolm again. Not too surprising. She hadn't told him who I really was, after all. Just an old friend and teacher. He thought I was just being polite and old fashioned when I called him 'son'.

I never even suspected they'd had a child.

But now he stood there in front of me. His name still ringing in my ears, I knew for certain this was Malcolm Dresden's boy: The narrow, bony shoulders and long-fingered hands, the big-jointed gawkiness that said that as tall as he was now, he wasn't done growing–would probably reach his dad's towering inches, given time.

Time he didn't have.

No-one was more surprised than I when I rose just before they would have passed judgement, but none of them knew it. I said I'd stand for him, give him a chance to prove he wasn't rotten to the core, to redeem himself in the Council's eyes. Injun Joe was goggle-eyed, and the look on Langtry's face was priceless. It might almost have been worth doing just for the gut punch to that pompous, English windbag.

They took me aside afterward, in private, and tried to change my mind. Threats don't have the same weight they did when I was younger, though, and even the knowledge that I'd be living under the Doom myself for as long as I was responsible for him wasn't enough to sway me.

Of course it wasn't. It had been so long since I'd had family.

oooOOOooo

It had been_ so long_ since I'd shared my life with a teen-ager. I'd entirely forgotten how . . . unrestful they can be.

He'd been with me for less than two weeks, but some days I was beginning to despair of my decision. Every waking moment that he wasn't bouncing off the walls, he was either making sarcastic comments about _everything_, asking the world's dumbest questions, or moping around like a heartbroken puppy.

Given, he had more excuse for the latter than most boys his age. I'd heard more about his history from Injun Joe than the boy had said yet himself, but the pattern of his flinches suggested an excess of discipline and a serious dearth of kindness. Every time the mildest reprimand brought on that cringing expectation of violence, I felt my heart flinch in sympathy. He hadn't told me yet what had happened to his parents. I hadn't had the guts yet to ask.

And the strangest dance of all was the one around the dinner table.

That first Monday after I brought him back, on my regular trip into town, I'd laid in more than double my usual supplies, having a vague recollection about growing boys and food. I was certainly onto something there, but I hadn't been expecting an orphan's reflexes. Like a wild animal offered a tidbit, he'd snatch anything I gave him and devour it instantly, but never _asked_ for anything, never admitted to wanting more unless I particularly asked. I'd lost count of the number of times I'd said, "It's okay if you're still hungry." He still watched me every time like he thought it was a trap.

I must've been doing something right, though, because my food was disappearing like magic. The supplies I'd expected to last seven days comfortably were more than gone in four. We were getting down to bare boards and the dustiest old canning experiments, but the last thing I was going to do was set back what little progress I'd made with him by letting him think that he'd eaten too much. So I broke my own rule and dragged him back to town on Saturday, figuring if I tried to wait till the weekend was over like usual we'd have to resort to cannibalism. Or eat one of my sheep, wool and all.

So here we were, a long rough ride away from home again, bouncing along the worn two lane road that led into the picturesque little town of Hog Hollow, the silence in the cab of my truck as deafening as cannon-fire.

The one attempt at conversation he'd made, a while back, I'd accidentally destroyed with too curt a response. I couldn't think of anything to say to him, to break the silence. I felt like a heel. How had I ever managed to raise a child before?

Oh, that's right; badly, and more than a century ago.

I pulled my old Ford truck into a free spot in the neat row of slanted spaces along Main Street, and killed the engine. The sudden silence was broken on the instant by a growl worthy of a grizzly bear. We both looked down at the boy's concave gut. "Hungry?" I asked, watching him blush.

"Just a little," he said, with a self-conscious grimace, watching me again with those wary, puppy-dog eyes. Maggie's eyes. If I'd had any doubt about his parentage when I first saw him, it was all wiped away the moment the hood came off. He had her jaw, too, and if I'm honest, it was a bit more suited to a man's face. He'd be a striking fellow when he finally grew into it. For now it just made him look peevish and stubborn.

I nodded, sighing thoughtfully. I'd certainly never been _this_ bad when I was young. Breakfast wasn't two hours ago. I pulled a wrinkled twenty out of my wallet and handed it to him. "Here. There's a couple of them newfangled fast food joints down the end of the road. Go fill yourself up on greasy burgers and come find me in the hardware store when you're done. We've got to get you your own set of carving tools if I'm going to teach you how to make a proper staff."

I don't _know_ if his eyes lit more at the prospect of food than the magical project we'd discussed a couple of days ago, but I suspected so. Like any well-trained wizard child, Harry thought of most magical work no differently than any other work.

"Thanks!" he blurted–sounding unflatteringly surprised–and hopped out of the truck to hurry off down the street. I stepped out more slowly myself, stretching a bit and taking in the view. The sidewalks were crowded, and the streets bustled much more than I was used to; other folks on shopping trips, families out enjoying the fall weather, and kids–free of their usual weekday confinement–getting up to all sorts of mischief in their free time. My new apprentice didn't quite manage to bowl anyone over as he raced for the big bright plastic signs down the road, but it wasn't for lack of trying. I sighed, shook my head, and headed off to get some errands done in peace before he came back.

I figured from experience that the grocery store was the place I least wanted the boy hovering over my shoulder, so I headed there first. I was nearly done with my business–just waiting for the flirtatious fifty-something cashier to finish ringing up our mountain of supplies–when I felt something I should have been dreading. A short, sharp burst of evocation, strong enough to feel from a couple blocks off, but sloppy and poorly focused as all get-out.

Harry. Had to be.

My gut lurched a little. Did I mention his temper?

I've been known to get angry on occasion. It happens to most folks, and I know what it looks like. But when a man can do the sort of things we wizards can just by thinking about it, he can't afford to indulge his emotions. The boy had obviously been taught that, and he just as clearly was still having trouble living it. Despite his wariness around me, and the certainty that he'd been on his best behavior these past few days, I'd already seen him flare up near to bursting a couple of times. Add onto that natural hot-headedness the damage he'd done to himself when he went and burned someone to death, and the boy had the makings of an absolute powder keg. Maybe I shouldn't have left him alone so soon.

"Damnation," I muttered to myself, carefully not looking around at a sound no-one else would have heard. I patted my pockets and shook my head. "I'm sorry, Myrna. I left my checkbook in the car. You keep on with this stuff and get me a total and I'll be back in just a minute."

"Sure, Sugar, sure. You take your time, and I'll have Mikey out here to help you with all this by the time you get back," she said, fluttering her eyelashes at me. I'd told her before she was too young for me, but she thought I was kidding.

I thanked her and hurried out of the store as quick as I could without looking out of place. I hadn't heard any screams or sirens yet, nor smelled smoke, so I had hopes the trouble could still be contained, whatever it was. I turned up the street and made my way in the direction the spell had come from, forcing myself to slow down to a casual stroll once I was out of Myrna's sight, and rubbernecking around for trouble in the guise of a general codgery curiosity.

The pulse of magic wasn't repeated, for which I was duly grateful, and I turned the corner back onto Main without having seen anything untoward, or even any excitement on the faces around me. I'd walked another block, into view of the two burger joints I'd pointed out to the boy, before I finally caught sight of him.

He was standing still on the sidewalk, jaw clenched in that bulldog way I'd already gotten to know, facing off against a half-dozen boys about his own age. They were all on the big side, though not quite his height–heavy-shouldered sporty sorts–and they stood arrayed behind the largest, who was getting in my apprentice's face. I couldn't hear a word of what he was saying, but you don't live as long as I have without being able to recognize macho posturing from farther away than that.

That cold, sick feeling came back to my gut with a vengeance, and I picked up my pace. These petty little bully-boys had no idea what they were playing with. They'd just chosen to pick on someone who could literally kill them with a word. And might just decide to do it, if I'd read him wrong enough.

But I didn't feel him pulling in energy. He didn't shift his weight as the other boy leaned in, and he didn't say anything. In fact, it might have been my imagination, but I almost thought I could see him beginning to relax in the face of the bully's threatening gestures.

I hesitated, slowing down and trying to get a handle on my reaction. If it had been Maggie down the street, I would have been there already; flying into the middle of it, chewing out the other kids and dragging her away. But if there was one thing I knew to the depths of my blood-stained soul, it was that I'd made a right mess of raising her. Maybe I could do no better than turning old reflex on its head. Maybe I should give him a chance to deal with things as he saw fit. See how it played out without me. That was a tough call to make, and I hated the hollow helplessness I felt at the idea, but something down deep said it was the right choice.

Best if I didn't draw in any power myself then. It's a waste of energy if you're not sure you'll need it, and on top of that, if the boy noticed he might be offended, or upset. But I did shove my hands into the pockets of my overalls, fingering a couple of little somethings I had prepared for just such an occasion. With luck they wouldn't be needed, but you don't get to the far side of your third century by counting on luck.

I stopped in a spot where I had a good view and waited, not quite holding my breath. I was right; his shoulders had settled a bit, and as I watched I saw the muscle of his jaw smooth. He regarded the lead bully with a cold, distant expression settling into those familiar eyes that held far more dark knowledge and menace than any sixteen-year-old should have a right to.

The fountain of bluster began to dry up. Harry still did nothing. His gaze grew even colder if that were possible, and a tiny smile curled one corner of his lip. I felt a matching one touch my own, and the tension eased out of my chest as my grandson let the bully's bravado drown in a sea of silent threat.

It was an elegant non-response, and far more restrained than I'd been expecting. And as the bullies let out their last spurts of swagger and shuffled confoundedly out of his way, he looked past them and met my eye, and I felt something warm and unfamiliar stirring in me. I gave him a tiny nod, drawing my hands back out of my pockets and waiting calmly for him to join me.

Up until that moment, I had to admit, I'd had some grave doubts about my snap decision. Rediscovered blood or not, I'd accepted a terrible risk in taking on the reformation of a warlock. No matter how innocent the first steps down the left-hand path, they almost never turn back once they've started. But now I knew it didn't matter. Grandson or no, this boy was worth fighting for. I'd made the right choice.

Of course that still didn't explain–. I scowled as I recalled the reason I'd rushed out looking for him in the first place, and he blinked a couple of times as he came along side of me. "What in tarnation have you been up to boy?" I rumbled at him, upping the wattage on the glare for good measure. "I felt that spell all the way at the grocery store."

He looked startled at the charge, or maybe the fact that I'd noticed. Started to tense and stubborn up on me, but he made himself take a slow breath, and answered in a tone barely touched with fury. "Those assholes who were getting in my face, just now." I raised my brows and waited in silence. "They were chasing this stray dog all over the street. One of them had a cattle prod." He thrust out that chin and narrowed his eyes. "So I hexed it. That's all." He turned away from me, missing the smile that jumped to my lips at that. "And I'd do the same thing again in a second. I hate bullies."

I squashed the grin before he turned back, considering. That would explain the looseness I'd felt. A hex was hardly a real spell; just a case of shoving a wad of unfocused power at something with a bit of malice behind it. And it told me something else about the boy that I hadn't known till now. He couldn't turn away. He was that rare sort of man who saw bad things and felt the need to do something about them, to act. He must've got that from his dad.

I grunted at him, grudgingly, and favored him with a scowl I didn't feel. "Humph. I can see the need, I suppose. But I don't have to lecture you about keeping a low profile in public, do I?"

He had the grace to look a little sheepish, but he didn't back down. "No sir, Mr. McCoy. I understand. I just couldn't let them get away with it. And nobody noticed!"

I watched him for a moment, trying to balance discipline and approval in my head. The boy had done what was right, but the last thing I needed was the locals starting to throw suspicious looks toward me and my farm. "See that they don't," I said. "Now come on. if your belly's full, I left a heap of groceries getting warm to come bail you out. You'll be just in time to help carry 'em."

"Goody," he said. But the rolling eyes had a hint of a smile under them.

We finished the rest of our shopping in about twice the time it took on quieter days, but there were no more incidents to speak of till we got back to the truck for the last time.

"Mr. McCoy?" The extra hesitance in the boy's tone as he slung the last bag of feed into the bed of the truck put me on guard. "Could I drive us home?"

I favored him with a furrowed brow. "How old are you again, boy?"

"Sixteen, Sir," he said. "Seventeen, next week. I've got my license and everything!"

I pulled my keys out of my pocket, fingering the braided fob of mismatched horsehair as I thought for a moment. He probably wasn't very good at it yet, but the only way to learn was practice. And it seemed like he'd earned a bit of trust. "Alright. But–!" I cut into his excited whoop, "You stay under the speed limit, and be careful. We've got a lot of money in the back of this truck, and I don't want anything getting damaged or lost. You hear?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. McCoy." Lord save me from those puppy-dog eyes. I tossed him the keys and stumped around to the passenger door. No need to ask whether he knew standard transmissions. DuMorne's car wouldn't have been _that_ much newer than mine.

He was cautious enough to satisfy me backing out of the space, and headed down Main at a nice sedate stroll, with only a little trouble shifting into second. I breathed slow and steady, and stared out the side window to keep from kibitzing. We were passing over the top of the hill, between a busy gas station and an overgrown little slice of municipal park when I saw them: the gang of wannabe tough guys were hanging out under a flame-leafed oak tree, chucking bits of torn bark into traffic and spearing the passing public with sullen, shiftless eyes.

The pickup caught their attention. It's old even for the sticks, and better kept than it maybe ought to be, but I bought it new in '22, can't bear to let it rust. The ringleader was the only one who looked past the steel and glass. His eyes settled on Harry in the driver's seat and narrowed in a flat blue glare that I didn't like one bit. You don't see that kind of pique in someone who's willing to let bygones be bygones.

No more weekend trips to town for us, that was for sure. There'd be plenty of time for errands when those boys were locked up in school. And they'd have forgotten it come the holidays. I hoped.

I brooded on the nature of enemies, danger, and the difficulty of keeping a low profile in this day and age until we were well out of town, and trundling along the two lane back to the farm. Then I got sick of myself and started looking for something to talk about.

"Seventeen next week, you said?" I ventured. He nodded, 'um-hmmed,' carefully negotiating a curve with both hands on the wheel. "We should do something special. When's your birthday, exactly?"

"Tuesday. The thirty-first."

I blinked at him a couple of times. "You were born on _Hallowe'en?_" I said, surprise making my tone too sharp.

He turned to meet my eyes for a long, confused moment. Then shrugged. "It's not _my_ fault."

I laughed at that, though my heart wasn't really in it. "No. No, of course not," I said, calmer. "It's just a strange coincidence." Unless you don't believe in coincidence. We passed the rest of the drive home in silence.

The girls lay sprawled on watch at the nearest gate to the pasture, as usual. I stepped out of the truck while Harry pulled around to the house, and wandered up to them, eyes roving over the mass of calm, fluffy backs scattered across the hill above. "Tairnich, Teinntreach," The two border collies perked their ears at their names, and sat to attention, eyes riveted. "Everything hunky dory girls?" The phrase and its cadence were old and familiar. Tairny barked once in response, and I tossed them each a hunk of jerky from a pocket. "See it stays that way." I nodded and turned, to find the boy standing by the car door, eyeing me, as he often did when I spoke to the girls. Trying to figure whether something was fishy about them or me, I guess.

What can I say? Even a recluse gets lonely sometimes, and dogs make for good listeners. But I didn't feel like explaining myself to the scrawny enigma I'd dragged into my life, just now. "Don't just stand there gawking, boy. Let's get all this stuff put away."

I made us a big meal before the dust settled, and we finished the afternoon chores in something beginning to approach routine. It might be a relief to have an extra pair of hands around, once he knew the jobs well enough not to need my eye on him. For now, it was almost more work than doing everything alone. Still and all, we had things squared away by dark, and I set him to an hour or two of study before bed. Who needs fancy school-houses and complicated curricula when you've got books and a brain?

I spent some hours in research myself, that night. Pouring over old astrological texts and notes by lantern-light, running calculations without making any notes, and dredging up every detail I could of one very unpleasant conversation, from a couple of decades before.

What on God's green earth were you up to, Maggie?

I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to know.

oooOOOooo

Turns out there was going to be a party at the Grange Hall, with a haunted house and everything, for Hallowe'en night. There were big ads in both of the papers we'd brought home. We ran across them the next morning after breakfast, and suddenly Harry wanted to go.

I thought it was a bad idea and said so. Forcefully. He stared at me like a kicked puppy and then left in a silent huff. At least he got his chores done without sarcasm that day. He hardly said a word.

The next morning, I was roused from the thin haze that usually passes for sleep at my age by an unfamiliar thumping and banging downstairs. It was just a bit before dawn, not much earlier than I usually got moving anyway. I crept down the steps on silent feet expecting an intruder. It couldn't be my houseguest, after all; the boy needed a good five minutes shaking to roll him out of bed any time before noon, and that with dire threats of cold water wake-ups in his future.

I came around the corner to the kitchen, one be-ringed fist in front of me, ready for trouble, and found it committing breakfast over my old potbelly stove.

I narrowed my eyes, but made no comment, just set to his usual tasks; laying out the dishes and neatening up from the night before.

We faced each other across the breakfast table, still in silence, plates of scrambled eggs, bacon and unevenly burnt toast between us. I looked away from the puppy-dog eyes to take a bite of egg.

Chewed, carefully.

Swallowed, more carefully.

"Germ warfare, is it now?" I asked.

The hopeful look slid off his face like butter from a hot skillet and he took a bite himself. Winced. Gagged. Swallowed gamely. "Sorry. I thought maybe. . ." He set down his fork with an air of finality, sighed to make his shoulders heave and intoned, "Let us never speak of this again."

"The party?"

He shot me a guilty glance. Opened his mouth once. Tried again. "I– meant my cooking."

I softened a little. "Don't feel too bad, boy. Those old Franklin stoves take some getting used to." I concentrated on pummeling the food into submission for a bit. "The bacon's fine." It was a little burnt, but bacon is hard to ruin completely.

His long face got even longer as he watched me, but he swallowed, bowing to the inevitable, and went back to eating his penance. Good. I could hardly afford to feed him once without dipping into my reserves. I wouldn't have him wasting food, no matter how much I might want to.

"I'm sorry, Mr. McCoy. It's just–," he trailed off, taking the excuse to set down his fork again. I held my tongue and my temper and waited for him to find his words. "Well, since you said you weren't sending me to high school here, I figured I won't get many chances to meet people my age, and–" Or anyone, in fact, which was the point of not sending him to the school. "And like you said, it's my birthday. It'd be nice to do something special." He bit his lip, gathering courage or resigning himself, I wasn't quite sure. "I understand your concerns, but I'd really like the chance to. . ."

To what, boy? To dress up in a costume and eat candy till you're sick? To mingle with the hoi polloi? To run into that bully again? To prove you're fit for company? That you're not a monster? I breathed deep and sighed, listening to the silence that was the only end of his sentence. "All right, boy. If it means that much to you. We'll take the chance." Before the grin could split his face down the middle, I added, "And tonight you'll help me make dinner, so I can show you the tricks to that ol' stove."

He rolled his eyes and went back to eating.

I figured next thing he'd be pestering me for a costume, but when I brought it up that afternoon, he gave me a sly smile and said he had it under control. Just asked if he could borrow my old straw hat, and some duct tape. I gave him a suspicious stare, but couldn't help saying yes in the end. I had another one. And now I was curious.

Tuesday afternoon rolled around, and I trudged back to the house from finishing the last of the chores. I'd taken care of more than usual myself so he could lock himself in his room to get ready. "You done primping and preening in there, boy?" I hollered. "We should go pretty soon."

"Yes, Sir, Mr. McCoy! I'll be right out!" I stuck my fists on my hips, fingering my keys and wondering just how long 'right out' meant to him, but I'd hardly started to fidget when the front door swung open, and the boy ducked nervously through, careful of the raggedy old straw hat perched on his head.

I took one look at him and barked out a laugh loud enough to startle the dogs, sprawled in the patchy grass under the fence.

When I first brought him home, he'd owned literally nothing but the clothes on his back, and those were a ragged mess, so I'd bought him a reasonable wardrobe; mostly jeans, white undershirts, and flannel. He objected to overalls despite their ultimate practicality, so I just got him one pair, in case he changed his mind with time, and he hadn't worn them. Until now.

I must admit, they don't look quite so snazzy on such a long, skinny frame as they do on someone like me, and they were a little short at the ankles, but the straw he'd carefully taped inside the cuffs and poking out from the sides of the bib, as well as the front placket and sleeves of the red and white flannel he wore under it didn't exactly make for a fashion-plate look, either. My old straw hat also sported an extra, straggling fringe of the stuff, long and thick enough to cover most of his curly brown hair, and brown work gloves and boots rounded out the look.

"What do you think?" he asked with a goofy grin, and a broad 'here I am' gesture that somehow made his long skinny arms look even longer and skinnier than usual.

"Well, drop a house on me and call me a witch! You'll fit right in, I'm sure." And I stumped off to the truck, still chuckling to myself. He did indeed make an excellent scarecrow.

The sun had almost set, and the Grange hall was hopping by the time we arrived. Ghosties, ghoulies and goblins of varying ages and quality of costume were flocking in from all over town and well out into the countryside, and we had to park a couple of blocks away.

The kid was champing at the bit to get away from me and join in, but I grabbed his elbow before he could race off toward the excitement. "Now, boy. There's one thing as should be perfectly clear here, but I'm going to spell it out anyway so there's understanding between us. You are not to do _any_ magic tonight. Not spell one. No pranks, no illusions. Not even a hex. Nothing." I met his eyes with my fiercest stare. "Unless your life is in actual danger. Do you hear me?"

His cheeks colored, and he looked away from me, scratching at the straw poking out of his shirt collar, and trying hard not to look as offended as he obviously felt. "What the hell?" he muttered, almost under his breath.

I kept glaring. "I want you to promise me, boy."

He turned and glared right back, for a long moment. Angry, those dark eyes had more in common with wolf than pup, but I had a lot more practice than him, and he yielded first, shoulders sagging in defeat. "Fine. I promise. Unless I believe that I or any one else are in imminent danger of death, I won't do any magic while we're here at the party." His jaw set again. "Happy?"

I harrumphed at his modification. "Ecstatic. Now go have fun."

He disappeared into the lengthening twilight before I'd walked a dozen steps. Lord save me from teenagers.

There were plenty of adults at the party for me to mingle with or avoid. Not just parents, but grandparents, the organizers, and younger folk just looking to hobnob. The main room of the building featured music, dancing, and refreshments, including a barrel full of water and apples for a real blast from the past, and the promised haunted house began there at a rear hallway, snaking off through the offices and out into the yard of the building next door. I didn't bother with it, just settled myself against the wall in an unpopular area of the main room with a glass of punch, and people-watched.

Admittedly, the main person I was watching was my charge. Harry wasn't hard to pick out, the raggedy straw hat bobbing and dipping inches above any other head in the crowd, but it was harder to tell who he might be interacting with, or what he was up to. Except when he was dancing. Then it was easy: making a fool of himself.

Scarecrows with too many elbows should not be allowed to perform the 'Running Man' in public. And I'll say no more on the subject.

I did have a decent view when he first bumped into the girl in white. Literally. She was on the tall side, buxom leaning toward plump, and looked almost at ease in her pleated, oddly heavy-looking white dress, even though no-one could have pulled off the ridiculous cinnamon-buns-on-the-head hairdo. He smiled, and said something apologetic, at which she laughed. Then the crowd shifted to swallow them up again, and I was left peering after glimpses of straw hat and flashes of white.

I let out a long breath and took another sip of my tepid fruit punch. He seemed to be having a good time, and that's what we were here for, after all.

"Seems a pleasant young man," came a voice from right by my ear. Myrna, the flirty grocery store clerk–gussied up for the evening in a low cut, fluttery-sleeved black dress topped by a velveteen witch's hat–had sidled up while I wasn't looking. "What's his story?"

She was a nice enough gal, but an inveterate gossip. I should have known she'd notice my new ward and start digging for dirt. Myrna didn't mean any harm, but I had to be careful what I told her, since it'd be all over town within days. Fortunately, I'd already considered how to spin the tale before the first time I brought him to town. A little truth can go a long way. "He's an orphan. His foster father died in a fire, recently." Was it really less than a month ago, still? "I knew the man, years ago, and the boy had no-one else to take him in. Would've gone back into the system."

"How tragic," she murmured, honest sympathy warring with that certain 'juicy story' gleam the gossips all get. Then she gave me a surprisingly sharp look."I never would have guessed you had such a soft heart, Ebenezar."

I frowned at her. If I could help it, no-one would ever know the real relationship between me and Harry. I don't have a few skeletons in my closet–I've got a _barn_ full of them. Not literally, of course. But there was nothing to gain and everything to lose by letting my enemies think there was anything more between us than a moment's uncharacteristic pity. Hell, I hadn't even let the boy know that I took him on by choice. He seemed to think they picked my name out of a hat when they decided to spare him. "Unusual circumstances, I guess."

Frowning, I considered and discarded the idea of meddling with her attitude. It would be easy enough, a muttered word in Scotts Gaelic, a mild effort of will pushed toward the woman with the kind grey eyes, would make the next sentence I said seem more plausible to her, more acceptable and uninteresting. It wasn't the most lily white of spells, but it would only be a gentle nudge. But that's not what magic is for. I gave her a serious frown instead, letting my eyes go a bit distant, as if in anti-nostalgic remembrance, and breathed deep before answering. "You can't change the past, but sometimes the present gives you a chance to try again, yes?"

I glanced up to meet her eyes for a brief moment, and they'd lost a little of that piercing quality, softening to a gentler concern under quizzical brows. "Yes, I suppose sometimes it does." She smiled quietly at me, laying a hand on my elbow, and said, "If you ever want to talk about it, I'd be happy to listen."

"Ah, lass. I buried my dead a long time ago. They don't bother me much these days." I patted the back of her hand with a casual reassurance. "But thank you for the offer." I glanced away to check on the boy, only to see the straw hat all the way across the room–disappearing through the entrance to the haunted hallway. I kept myself from swearing with a little effort. Let him have his fun. What was the harm? I glanced back to Myrna's kind, grey eyes again. What harm, indeed. "Want to dance?"

We managed a slightly awkward waltz to the tune of "Everybody Wants to Rule the World," and once we'd gotten into the rhythm of it, she made another foray. "I hear he met the local roughnecks the other day."

"Is that what they call spoiled brats with too much time on their hands, these days?" I asked, my tone a little harsher than it should have been. I like dogs.

"Among other things." She smirked a little, and tried to meet my eyes as I swung her around. I glanced over and away, focusing on the crowd around us. No help for it, being a wizard makes you seem shifty, but you can't just go around soulgazing everybody you meet. That way lies all sorts of trouble. "That Joseph Kasker's been a plague on the town since he was knee high to a grasshopper, but it's gotten worse since he made the football team," she continued, happy to have a captive audience. "His dad's the coach, you know. Let's him get away with murder, practically." She shook her head, frowning gently. "And that makes him seem 'cool' and 'hip' to the other boys, so a bunch of them follow him around."

"It's an old story, that, I'm afraid," I murmured, recalling innumerable examples of the same sort of dynamic. Why were charismatic leaders with good intentions so much thinner on the ground than those who used their power for simple mischief, or downright evil? Said something about human nature, I feared, but I kept those thoughts to myself.

"The one that really worries me, though–Clinton Jackson's always been a good boy, before." She sighed, shaking her head. "Till his dad ran off with that waitress from Stu's Diner back in the spring. His momma didn't handle it well. _Isn't_ handling it well," she corrected herself. "And he isn't either. Like a ship without a rudder, all of a sudden. And now he's falling in with Joe's crowd, I don't know what might come of that, but I doubt it'll bring anyone any good."

I grunted noncommittally, unable to come up with any useful reply to that.

The song ended. We came to a stop, shared a rueful grimace and retreated from the dance floor as the next song went on about "Wanging Chung" or some-such. I was just about to ask her if she wanted some of the half-decent punch when I felt an ominous tightening against the back of my neck. Damnation. What was Harry up to now?

He was probably within a couple of hundred feet if I could feel him gathering energy that clearly, but I wasn't too sure of the direction with everything going on in the big, busy room. I glanced around, but saw no sign of the straw hat. Out in the yard, then, most likely. "Stuffy in here," I muttered to my companion. "I need some air, I think." Then nodded shortly and hurried off before she could invite herself along.

I realized how true the excuse had been when I stepped out the door, into the breezy chill of the late October night. There were a few small clusters and couples of folks standing around near the entrance, enjoying the air and blocking my view. I might have stopped to appreciate it for a moment myself, if I hadn't had more important things on my mind. As it was, I only stopped to get my bearings. The cool breeze brought me the sound of raised voices from around one side of the building; jeering, angry, cock-strutting boys' voices, mostly. I no longer sensed any movement of magic in the air, so I followed the sound, and hoped for no more than one ugly situation brewing at a time.

The yard between the squat brick Grange hall and the aging victorian house next door was mostly open, shaded by a couple of old trees and decorated for the season, the lawn leaf-strewn and dim away from the road. Teens and some younger kids crowded it, most of them pressing back from a half dozen older boys in letterman jackets and jeans clustered near the middle of the open ground. The girl in white stood near them, voice raised in frightened protest, but the boys were ignoring her, focused inwards; busy kicking and yelling at another figure curled on its side on the grass.

I couldn't see any details, but I didn't need the trampled straw hat lying near the girl's feet to tell me who was under assault.

A sudden surge of rage and fear clenched at my heart, and I rushed into the fray, all thought of caution and concealment fled._"What is the meaning of this!"_ I roared, in my loudest voice, the finest thread of Power snaking its way into the sound, and making the air tremble minutely in its path. The effort of will served to enhance the naturally surprising effect of the shout, and the boys leapt satisfyingly high, hurriedly backing away from their victim as I stomped towards them. "Where are your parents?" I hollered, only slightly more softly, to save my voice. "Damnation, where's the _constable?_ What kind of town lets children commit assault right out in public!" By the time I'd said that much, the perpetrators were scattering into the night, hopefully coming to the realization that they'd gone too far, this time.

I didn't honestly care about wreaking vengeance on them, I was too worried about their target. I came to a stop just above him, taking a slow deep breath while I fought down the desire to grab him up in my arms. Calm. Distance. Let him salvage what dignity he could from this. I couldn't afford to let myself treat him like the little child I'd never known, and he wouldn't want me to. Instead I rested fists on hips and glared down at the fetal ball of over-long limbs, trying to guess how badly hurt he might be.

I watched him take one more long, shaky breath in silence, then unwind his arms from around his head, and deliberately plant them on the damp grass. With a sigh, he let go the energy he'd drawn in, properly pouring it into the solid ground, where it would drain safely away. Then, painfully, he rolled up to his hands and knees, and I offered him a hand up.

He met my eyes with a look somewhere between humiliation and gratitude, gripped my hand, and heaved himself to his feet with only a quickly suppressed wince. Half his face was purpling, his nose was red, his lower lip split and bleeding slightly, and he stood favoring his ribs on one side. Nothing he wouldn't recover from with a bit of time. He grimaced into the night after the scattering bullies and muttered, "Thanks," so softly I almost didn't hear.

I nodded slightly, and said, "I think we're about done here, don't you?"

His shoulders drooped. "Yessir, Mr. McCoy. Seems like." As I turned toward the street, the girl in the white dress stepped up to us, holding out the crushed hat to Harry. She looked upset and uncertain. He took it from her, with a smile that quickly dissolved into another wince, as the split lip started to bleed again. She smiled back, brief as a flash of lightning, then ducked her head, murmuring, "I'm sorry." Before either of us could say a word, she turned and scampered off into the night after the boys.

Frowning, I turned and headed for the pickup. Harry followed a few steps behind, more subdued than I'd yet seen him.

I let the silence stretch till we were most of a block from the crowd–far enough to be safe from curious ears–then let him draw even with me and tried to catch his eye. He kept his gaze fixed firmly on the dark street ahead of us.

"I felt you gathering power just before I came out, boy," I snapped, suppressed emotion making my voice too sharp. "What in hell were you thinking?"

He tromped along in silence for a dozen steps, his jaw tightening, before he finally shot a look at me. "I was on the ground by that point. They had me out-numbered five to one, and I figured it was pretty much all over but the kicking." He glared into the night for a long moment, taking a couple of shallow, panting breaths, and his next words came out through clenched teeth. "What I was _thinking_ was that if you could sense me throwing a hex from a couple of blocks away, it was almost guaranteed you'd notice me drawing in power from right outside the building, and that your most likely reaction would be to hurry outside to _intervene_."

"Oh." I rocked back a little at that. Something else I hadn't known about the kid: he was pretty smart. Well. _Smart_ would have been avoiding a five-on-one fight in the first place, but clever, anyway. I snorted at him. "Not a half bad idea, boy."

We walked in silence for half a block more before I asked, in a milder tone, "What happened, anyway?"

He rubbed the back of his neck gingerly, glancing down at me with what looked a lot like embarrassment on his face. "I met this girl–"

"The one in the white dress?"

"Yeah. Her name's Valerie." He shrugged, winced, and stopped himself hurriedly, wrapping one arm around his chest. "She's nice. We were hanging out. She dragged me through the haunted house. Said her sister's one of the ones who planned it. We got outside, and the zombie linebackers were there." He sighed in irritation. "Turns out she and Biff there, are an item. They got into it over her hanging out with me, and he called her–" he hesitated, and even in the orangey glow of the streetlights, I could see him blushing. His feet seemed to scuff harder along the sidewalk for a few steps. "Well, _I'm_ not gonna repeat it. But he called her something you just don't _say_ to a girl. So I called him on it."

He tilted his head to the side in place of a shrug. "He went for me. Hit me a couple times. I might've got him once or twice. Then he tried this wrestling hold or something on me, but I don't think he did it right. It just got me close enough to head-butt him." A faint smirk lightened his dour expression. "Broke his nose, I think. That's when somebody tripped me, and they all gathered 'round for some good old fashioned scarecrow stomping." He sighed. "At that point, I figured I might be in just a little bit over my head."

My surprised huff wasn't quite a laugh, but his smile widened anyway. "Thanks for coming to the rescue."

"Just like you figured I would," I grumbled.

"Yeah." Another sideways nod. "Only you probably thought you were rescuing the other guys."

I stopped, there in the chilly dark between pools of lamplight, and stared at him. He shuffled to a stop a step later, turning to face me with a puzzled expression. "Harry," I said, low and tense. "Is that what you truly believe?"

"Huh," he said. "You know, that's just about the first time you've used my name since I got here. I was starting to wonder if you knew it."

"I don't like wearing out peoples' names," I said, brushing the comment aside. "Names have power. Best not to waste it." _Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden. As though I could possibly forget._ I set the thought aside, and raised my brows, waiting for him to answer my question.

He frowned, apparently taking a moment to think about it seriously–which was good, because I'd never asked a question in more seriousness. "Well, yeah. I mean, it's your job to keep the world safe from the big bad warlock, right?"

"No." I stepped in closer and reached up to grip his shoulders, my hands tense against the red and white flannel. "It's my job to keep _you_ safe. Even from yourself. That's what I'm here for." I forced myself to relax my grip and pull away, shrugging. "Well, that and maybe pounding a little sense into that thick skull of yours."

His eyes gleamed for a moment, there in the dark, and then he laughed, half turning away. "My old teachers would say you were wasting your time on _that_."

I crossed my arms and said sternly, "I _don't_ waste my time, boy. If I try to pound sense into you, it's because I'm sure it can be done!"

He crossed his arms too, staring out into the night for a long moment. When he spoke, it was so softly I almost didn't hear it. "Thank you."

"Bah. It's cold out here. Let's get home. My mulled apple cider is ten times better for celebrating Samhain than that watered down Hawaiian Punch anyways." And I stumped off down the street, not looking back. He caught up with me soon enough.

oooOOOooo

When we got back to the farm, I took a closer look at his injuries, wrapped his ribs–bruised, maybe a crack, but none broken, thank goodness–and rummaged up a bag of frozen peas for his face. He gave it a funny look and said, "I thought steaks were traditional for black eyes."

I frowned at him. "You haven't got a black eye, and steak's too expensive to waste like that anyway. Remember to put the peas back in the ice box as soon as you're finished, we can still eat 'em later."

I shooed him off to the den while I got started fixing a late dinner. When he came back to put the peas away, I asked, "You feel up to taking a last turn around the pasture while I finish the food, son? Double-check the flock before we head for bed?"

He gave me a slightly surprised look. I'd dragged him around on my regular inspection tours a dozen times already, but had never yet suggested he do one alone. "Yeah, okay," he said after a moment, and headed out the door.

Good. That should give me time to get everything fixed up before he got back inside.

Time passed. I finished my preparations, such as they were, and the boy still hadn't come back. I'd expected it to take him longer than it usually took me, but he ought to have been done by now. I glanced around to make sure everything was settled in the kitchen, and was just about to head outside to see what was what, when he finally came clomping up the porch steps and banged in through the kitchen door.

"Everything looks normal out there, Mr. McCoy," he said, as a burst of cold breeze followed him in. "Boy, it's getting cold fast."

"Hmm. Does that this time of year," I commented blandly, then stood aside so he could see the set table. "Dinner's ready. Tuck in."

He glanced down at the rather odd spread arranged on the thick-planked wood, face crinkling for a moment in bemusement. Then he laughed, a little painfully, and limped around to take his usual seat. "Deviled ham, deviled eggs, and, let me guess, devil's food cake?"

"With dark chocolate frosting," I confirmed, nodding approval. And seventeen candles. "I love Betty Crocker mixes."

"Are you trying to tell me something?" he asked.

I laughed. "I'm _trying_ to tease you, kid. You need to lighten up some." I poured a couple of big ceramic mugs full of hot apple cider, seasoned with my own personal blend of spices, and passed him one. He took it gratefully, cradling the warm drink in both hands.

We spread ham on crackers, and made eggs magically disappear for a few minutes, and then I lit the candles on the cake. He took a deep breath, and huffed half of it out immediately as his bruised ribs protested. The boy shot me a brief, sly look and–just as I guessed what he was up to, but before I could protest–raised one hand and murmured _"Ventas servitas!"_

A brief, tightly focused gust of wind rushed forth from his hand, scattering napkins and tipping over the salt and pepper shakers. The candles went out. Half of them flew right off the top of the cake to clatter against the wall, along with quite a bit of the top layer of frosting, which splattered messily on the floor and across the face of the cast-iron stove.

I tried to glare at him through the helpless grunting laughter, and mostly failed. "Ah, I suppose I asked for that," I said finally. "You can clean up the mess _after_ we eat some cake."

"Yes, Sir, Mr. McCoy," he said, feigning meekness poorly.

The devil's food cake–what was left of it–was excellent, as usual. I even helped myself to a second slice before I teased the boy into polishing it off. Ah, well. He _probably_ wouldn't get indigestion.

I left him scrubbing frosting out of the decorative curlicues on the stove with a spare toothbrush and headed for bed not long after. "Best turn in as soon as you're done there, boy," I reminded him. "Tomorrow's chores still need doing, no matter the occasion tonight."

He grunted agreement without looking up.

oooOOOooo

For the second time in three days, I was awakened early. This time the chill dark outside the window indicated the wee hours of the morning when Tairny's alarmed barking shattered the silence. It hadn't been far before midnight when I finally turned in. I blinked bleary annoyance and groaned out of bed. What shenanigans was the boy getting up to now?

I paused, bare callused feet half on the rag rug, half on smooth time-worn planks, listening for the whatever had disturbed her. Soft rustling. The crunch of shoes on gravel. An unfamilar voice murmured soothingly. A couple of soft clicks, and crunching noises replaced the barking.

I pulled on my robe over well-worn pajama pants, checked the pockets, and crept to the window.

I saw nothing out of the ordinary outside, but the moon was a thin slice near the horizon and my window showed only the parked pick-up, the end of the drive, and the grey shingled barn across it where my three horses kept the hay-loft company.

The sheep bleated apprehensively in the pasture beyond, ghostly white clouds against the dark grass drifting toward the far fence, but I saw nothing else moving. A few murmured words and a moment's concentration drew familiar magic to heighten my senses, particularly nose and ears, and I cautiously slid open the window and leaned into the cold night air, straining for any clues.

Autumn leaves, cropped grass, rustling wind, the steel and grease scent of the truck; all to be expected. But I also caught the sharp tang of alcohol, and sweat–the scent of unfamiliar humans–and the sound of soft footsteps, sloshing liquid, and heavy breathing. The dog-soothing voice interrupted the silence again, his low murmur hitting my tuned-in ears plain as a shout. "Joe, are you sure about this?"

"Fuck you mean?" Came a reply, thick-tongued, nasal and snarling.

"Screwing around with some loser's one thing, dude, but this–" The first speaker's tone dropped, taking on a sharper edge. "Somebody could get hurt."

"Fuck that, man! Somebody already _is_ hurt. Somebody's gotta pay for my nose, Squint! They've gotta pay. Here." The last word accompanied an extra sloshing sound, followed a moment later by the rasp of a cigarette lighter. The angry speaker, Joe, muttered another string of repetitive and uninspired curses as he flicked the lighter several more times.

Enough of this. I'd better get out there and deal with them before the situation got any further out of hand.

I hurried downstairs as quickly and quietly as I could, crept to the door that led from the kitchen onto the front porch, reached past the short, gnarled staff that rested against the wall, and grabbed up the shotgun that waited right next to it, checking the load and safety with the smooth ease of long practice. Rock salt is useful for all sorts of situations. Everything from wild animals to certain classes of demons, to unwanted but entirely mundane visitors.

I pulled open the inner door–it swung smoothly on well-kept hinges–and set my free hand on the frame of the screen door, when a lanky shadow moved on the porch, looming up from the cane-backed rocker near the steps. "What?" Harry muttered, apparently to himself. What was he doing out there this time of night?

No time to worry about that just now. A faint flicker of light from beyond the cypress bushes that lined the drive by the side of the house suggested that Joe had finally rediscovered fire. I pushed the screen open with a soft creak and stepped out onto the porch, coming to stand next to my grandson, peering around the corner toward the furtive sounds of our intruders. "Sh," I whispered, at his surprised startle. "Your friends from town don't know when enough is enough."

He threw me another, sharper look, taking in the bathrobe and shotgun, and rubbed his hands together, brushing away the night's chill. "What do we do?" he asked quietly.

I'd just opened my mouth to tell him to leave things to me when the little gang appeared at the edge of the trees, trailed by the recently bribed dogs: Five young men in a loose, tottering troop, all big boned and brutish to one extent or another, most of them clutching liquor bottles. The biggest, in front, his face plastered with bandages, held a lighter in his other hand, and walked with a touch more stagger than the rest. I found my gaze riveted to the bottle he held, and the burning twist of cloth that hung out of its mouth, like a lolling tongue.

Without thought, I raised the shotgun to my shoulder, racking a shell into the chamber with a unique and silence-shredding _click-clack_ and bellowed, "Drop it, right now!"

Every one of the boys twitched in shock. Obviously, despite the dogs' inevitable greeting, they'd been expecting their sneak attack to fly unopposed. The leader, Joe, flailed more than the rest, arms windmilling for a moment as he almost lost his balance, liquid sloshing around in the bottle he held. The flaming wick of the amateur molotov cocktail flapped and fluttered like a bright little flag, and brushed against the sleeve of his jacket.

The flame blossomed instantly, probably catching on to spilled fuel from his clumsy handling, or maybe just finding a tasty snack in the cheap cloth.

He didn't notice for a long moment, too busy trying to stay on his feet, but one of his cohort yelled and pointed at the burning sleeve, about the time the heat must've started to register. Joe shot one terrified look at his burning arm, then his eyes rose to meet mine, and he screamed in pure panic, raised his arm, and flung the bottle straight at us.

For a split second, I froze in indecision. Shooting the bottle would've risked splattering all of us with burning fuel, but there wasn't a lot else to be done, given that I wasn't exactly willing to use magic in front of a bunch of nosy kids.

Understand, I've faced just about every nasty sort of thing the Nevernever can cough up, more times than I can be bothered to remember; fought demons, vampires, and even my own kind far too often, and my reflexes are no slouch when it comes to defending myself from sudden peril to life and limb. But I've lived on this farm, in this community, for near two hundred years. I like it here, and I have no desire to be forced off of it by a terrified mob. A couple centuries of ingrained paranoia stayed my hand.

But that didn't matter in the end, because Harry didn't have the same inhibitions.

Before the bottle had quite left the bully's grip, my grandson's hands were raised, fingers spread before him. In an instant he drew in a load of power like a gasped, half-drowning breath, and shouted at the top of his lungs, _"Ventas servitas!"_

Oh, crap.

Unleashed at full force, the spell he'd used to make a mess of my kitchen proved capable of far greater havoc. All the boys staggered backward, knocked off their already uncertain balance by the sudden blast. Several of the bottles were knocked out of their hands, one boy fell flat on his rump, and the burning sleeve went out with a last, sad flicker of irony. The molotov–the focus of the brief gale–was caught in mid-flight and flung back all right, away from us and the house, to soar right over the heads of the stunned boys. And it kept going in a flashing, flickering arc that only ended when it shattered against the side of the barn.

For the space of a breath I thought that would be the end of it, that the wind had blown out the wick too, and Harry's mad, scrambling defense would have proven perfect. But some sheltering curl of fabric or unfortunate vagary of the wind had left an ember still alight. As Harry's spell dispersed, it flickered gently back to life, then the flames flashed across the scattered fuel with a sudden bark of displaced air, eagerly stretching out to embrace the old, dry wood of the barn like the arms of a deadly lover. "Oh, Hell," I heard myself mutter.

I glanced around. The backup bullies, one and all, were staring open mouthed at the rapidly spreading flames–transfixed by their first glimpse of the dreadful reality of unrestrained fire. So was my grandson. Their leader was staring at Harry with the same sort of terror blooming on his face. I knew that look, from more than one ugly encounter in my younger, stupider days. And what I saw was a horde of torches kindling to life in the back of his eyes.

So I gave him something else to think about. A load of rock salt across the shins will distract you from just about anything, even the discovery that the whole world is not as you know it. Perhaps especially from that.

The throaty boom of the shotgun going off jolted the rest of the boys out of their fire-trance. And Joe's screaming, as he fell to the ground clutching his scoured and seeping legs completed their return to reality. I racked another shell into the chamber and held the gun ready, waiting to see how they'd react. Three out of four hangers-on gave me and my gun one startled glance between them and took to their heels, beating a retreat back to the highway. The fourth, the only one whose hand curled around a bunch of dog biscuits rather than a half-empty bottle, stood staring at his ringleader for a long moment, glanced over his shoulder at the wall of flames racing up the side of my barn, and turned back to meet my eyes, his expression abruptly sober and troubled. "How can I help?" he asked.

Hmph. What timing. I stared at the growing conflagration for a stomach-churning second myself, my brain running through a helpless inventory. The horses. The chickens. My _hay_. A whole winter's worth, just carefully dried and stored in the loft. Perfect fuel for the blaze, and a huge loss if it all went up. There was already smoke curling out from under the edges of the roof.

I looked back at the strange boy. "Clint?" I asked, playing a hunch. He nodded jerkily, acknowledging my guess. I snapped to a decision, raising my voice to be heard clearly over Joe's continued sobbing and the growing, chewing roar of the flames. "Around back of the barn. There's a door and some windows. Get as many open as you can." He blinked once, nodded sharply and took off, running wide around the building with the swift, floating stride of the athlete he was.

Well, at least a couple of open doors would be enough for the chickens. The sharp little Banties I kept were sensible enough to get themselves out of danger once an escape route was open, not like those over-fed, over-bred things they grow on the factory farms. I spared a moment to thank my stars I had sold off the last of the turkeys last year. They'd have been impossible to wrangle out.

I turned to Harry just as he opened his mouth, his dark eyes haunted. I must admit, I expected stammered apologies, or some attempt to shift blame, but all he said was, "What can I do?"

"Get inside. Call the fire department. Then get the horses out. Use my keychain to calm 'em down before you go in there, I'll get the water going." I shoved him roughly toward the front door and raced around to the side of the house, to grab the garden hose and negotiate emergency service from the water sprite who ran my well.

By the time I came back, dragging the hose, the chickens were awake and raising holy hell. Harry was back outside, crouched in the dust at the end of the drive with my keys in one hand, sketching a circle around himself with a stick in the other. He was well out of the way so I left him to it and started spraying, directing the stream of water–amped up to near fire-hose strength by the spirit's concerted effort–to soak down the roof first thing. Wet hay would be better than none.

Clint returned from around the back of the barn, coughing heavily, and moving much more slowly than before. "The door and one window are open, sir," He reported between gasps of clean air. "The other one's too hot, I couldn't get a grip on it."

"Good enough, boy." I nodded, not taking my eyes off the flames and the stream of water as I played the hose down the wall. "You know any first aid?"

"Some."

"See to your friend, then. There's a kit under the kitchen sink." He jerked a nod and raced off again.

Another long minute went by as I fought my doomed battle with the flames. Clinton came back out with the medical kit and my tea pot and did what he could for Joe, whose screeches had subsided into a sort of hacking wail. Pansy. Stuff doesn't do that much damage, although I'll admit the sting doesn't go away fast.

Meanwhile, Harry concentrated, muttering inaudibly to himself as he worked up the necessary connection between the braided horsehair that made up my key fob and the animals it had come from, just beginning to scream and kick in panic inside the barn. I started to worry. I would have had a calming spell done and running long before this. Maybe I'd picked wrong. Maybe I shouldn't have left that part to the boy, he was only an apprentice, after all. But the water sprite's contract was with me, not anyone else. Harry _couldn't_ have taken care of that part. I steadied my breathing, clenched my teeth against the fear that rose with the horses' screams and concentrated on taking care of my task. At least the chickens were starting to find the exits. I saw a few flapping off into the pasture and startling the sheep.

Right, the sheep. I took my eyes off the fire for a flickering second to find the dogs, then called their names and whistled quick instructions. They bounded off, happy as always to be busy, and chivvied the flock off to the farthest corner of the pen. Tairny, overachiever that she was, made sure to round up most of the stray chickens, too.

Finally, Harry moved, breaking the circle with a smooth flick of his free hand, and I felt the ripple of his spell racing out to connect with the animals in the barn. A moment later the horses' cries began to soften, from terror to confusion, lowering still more as the boy stood and raced for the barn door. I splashed the latch again, just before he reached it, hoping the iron wasn't hot enough to burn. He threw a quick grin over his shoulder at me as he wrenched the door open, then disappeared inside the building as smoke billowed out to swallow him.

I kept working on the flames, which had spread across most of the front face of the building by now, and found myself holding my breath in sympathy for the boy inside. It couldn't have taken the eternity it seemed before he appeared out of the thick pall of smoke at the door, one arm bent in a futile effort to protect his face, wading through a fluttering carpet of slower-witted banties. The other arm dragged behind him, with the ends of three nylon lead-ropes wrapped around his fist in a lumpy, rainbow colored knot. The horses staggered along at the other end of their leads, heads hanging down to their knees, eyes half-lidded; not so much calm as near comatose, as best I could tell. But he got them out, and tied them to a fence post a safe distance away from the ruckus, giving each of them a quick look over for burns or scrapes before he came back.

A siren's mournful howl pushed through the nearer sounds of fire and frightened critters, announcing incoming authority. Help with the barn would be more than welcome, but I wasn't looking forward to the rest of the foofaraw.

It was all more than a bit of a mess, but it could have been a lot worse.

oooOOOooo

By the time the fire marshal had declared the barn's remains safe, and the minor burns on Harry and Clinton's hands had been seen to by a paramedic, and Joe and his salted legs had been dragged off to the hospital, and I had answered all the questions I was going to, it was nearly dawn. The sheriff tucked the last of our intruders into the back of his squad car, but he didn't bother with cuffs. Clinton was headed for home, not jail, and a long, awkward, overdue talk with his mother.

There was no point trying to go back to bed, but not enough energy left just then to start in on the next day's work, elaborated as it would be by all the necessary tasks of cleaning up after the fire. I'd probably have to bite the bullet and hire help to get a new barn up before winter set in.

Well. That's what reserves are for, I suppose. I wondered if I should try to get the perpetrators roped in to the project for their sins. It'd be a more useful sentence than sending them to juvie.

When I'd finally seen off the last of the receding tide of interlopers, I found Harry washed up on the porch, sitting on the steps, hemmed in by the dogs. Tairny had draped herself across his feet like a big black and white blanket, and Teintry leaned against one leg, her chin pressed into his chest, ecstatically enjoying a two fisted ear-scratching.

I harumphed, and started to say something quelling about not spoiling working dogs, but paused with my mouth open. What the heck. Everybody deserves a good ear-scritching every once in a while. And anyway, the girls had done an excellent job of keeping the flock out of the way and under control while all the fuss was going on, with no more than a few whistled reminders from me. They'd more than earned the extra attention they were collecting. I stumped over and plopped down next to him, and offered Tairny a gentle rub. She shifted to expand her foot-warming duties to me, and settled again with a long, contented sigh.

His hands fell still at last, and we sat for a while–in a silence more exhausted than companionable, I feared–watching the tranquil sheep and sleeping horses. Harry's fingers picked aimlessly at his bandages, and the silence stretched.

"I'm sorry about your barn, Mr. McCoy," he said finally. I watched him glance over at me, then away, eyes restlessly avoiding the charred mess in front of us. There hadn't been much left standing but the two end walls, by the time the firemen got done. I sighed, considering my response.

"You acted, boy. It wasn't the very best action possible, but. . . you stopped him from hurting us, or burning down the house." I stared at my own hands, water-wrinkled and grimy. "When you've only got an instant to decide what to do, a good action now is better than the best action too late." He nodded, some of the tension easing out of his shoulders. "Don't think that means I'll be _forgiving_ you for burning down my barn any time soon, though," I finished, just to keep him on his toes.

He narrowed his eyes and studied me in the faint dawn-light. Trying to figure out whether I was kidding, I'd guess. Good luck with that, kid._ I_ wasn't sure if I was kidding right now. I reached over and gripped his shoulder with one hand, gave him a little squeeze and shake and a serious look, trying to sort out the right thing to feel from a welter of pride, annoyance and cold, leftover terror. "We go on, kid. That's all. We just go on."

He sighed, and nodded, looking away again. I took my hand back and looked around at my farm, starting to think about the work ahead of us. Just as I put my hands on my knees, getting ready to stand up, he blurted out, "I like my name."

"What?" I asked, thrown by the non-sequitur.

"I don't like being called 'boy,' or 'son,' or 'kid,' or 'you there,' " he said, facing me with a sort of half-terrified truculence in his eyes.

"I've never called you 'you there,'" I protested uneasily.

He snorted, shaking his head at my obvious dodge. "You get the point. I _like_ being called by my name."

I stared at him in silence for a long, uncomfortable moment. Call it stubbornness, or maybe just cowardice. Truth to tell, I was afraid of what else my grandson might hear if his name came from my lips too often. "Respect my neuroses, child," I grumped, finally.

He gave an exasperated huff, and looked away, crossing his arms and slumping sideways against the porch rail. "Okay. Fine." He spoke to the empty air in front of us. "You don't like using names too much. How about a compromise?"

"You got something in mind, s–" I stopped myself, and sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. "What do you suggest, Harry?"

"Well. What if we came up with a nickname? Something other than my real name, but that you only use for me. How about that?"

I scowled at the side of his face and considered it for a bit. "If I agree to that," I said reluctantly, "Will you agree to stop calling me Mr. McCoy all the time? Rubs me the wrong way."

He gave me a thoughtful sideways look. "Depends, what's the nickname going to be?"

"Hmmph." I rubbed my chin, pretending to think some more. Honestly, the perfect moniker had occurred to me as soon as he mentioned the idea. "I've got a good one. It used to be more popular years ago, especially for a long drink of water such as yourself." He watched me in skeptical silence. "What do you say, Hoss, is it a deal?"

He snorted, raising one eyebrow. "Hoss? Like that guy from Bonanza?" I shrugged. What the heck did a bonanza have to do with anything? He offered me his hand. "Yeah. I think I can live with that, Sir."

I grinned and shook on it.


End file.
